


The lonely months

by laughingpineapple



Category: Ghost Trick: Phantom Detective
Genre: Early Days, Gen, Mild Cat Shenanigans, Secrets, Secrets Getting Out Eventually, new timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 06:14:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8879125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laughingpineapple/pseuds/laughingpineapple
Summary: Can't lock yourself away this time





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [axilet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/axilet/gifts).



1.

At night, from the docks, the sea is a vast, dim expanse. The foreign shores of neighboring countries would be just out of reach, if one could set foot on its surface and walk a long, long line under a black sky.

Jowd clinks his beer against his colleague's, a reflex, having heard the rest of the table erupt in cheerful toasts. Someone must be getting promoted, not him not yet, first one should be in eight months, once the ruckus of the standoff at the park dies down. The pub they're killing time in is a nest of warmth and light in the darkened harbor - their chicken wings would be the stuff ballads are made of, if one could dip a ballad in ketchup, and Jowd rather suspects that he had been the one to suggest the joint in the first place, in the bygone era that is last month - but his sights are set on the sea. White noise talks buzz up and down the table. He slinks away. Maybe no-one will notice.

The reason why you cannot walk on the waves is that the sea is so very deep. At the edge of a pier, Jowd sits and imagines taking the plunge, sinking and sinking, past the fishes, past all color, until he finds himself.

In some futures, he's still there, bleeding to death in a sunken submarine. Maybe in all of them. Maybe it's inevitable. The thought lulls him to a calm.

 

2.

Cabanela is a patient man. Not many people would agree with this evaluation, but then again not many people can say they know Cabanela like Cabanela himself does (his best friend should, by the by) and the fact remains true regardless of popular vote. So Cabanela is a patient man and his patience is being tested: Jowd declines his spare fries, fine. Jowd is pouting from under a barely groomed 'stache, it's a double assault on his sense of aesthetics but Cabanela supposes that people who are not Cabanela are in fact entitled to living through the occasional bad day. Jowd switches to smooth peanut butter, just bizarre. Jowd reads nonfiction instead of laughing at his jokes (“And the owl said to the pigeon, why not?”, excuuuse you, was genius), weeell, the day their humor aligns is the day the gods manifest and walk on this earth, but they usually make more of an effort to meet halfway. Jowd steps on his scarf and doesn't even notice, Cabanela counts his blessings, at least it's not the coat, at least it wasn't tied.

But the forlorn stares when he thinks no-one is noticing, no, those will not stand: first of all, how dares he think no-one is noticing. “Baby,” he says swooshing by his side. “That daaay, it went how it went. They don't make backward gears on a bike, as I always say! Maybe we should loosen up a liiittle bit. A iota, a modicum, a smidge…”

“Maybe we should take it to heart. Both of us.”

“One thing does not preclude the other.”

Jowd isn't listening. If he ever did.

 

3.

As tautology would have it, every moment spent with Kamila is a blessing. Lately, Alma feels that every moment spent home is, regardless of whether her little blessing is in her arms or sleeping upstairs. A big emptiness swept in one day, when she wasn't looking, and Jowd wasn't looking either, or maybe he was but would not tell, and he tries to fight it with caresses and kisses that make her feel present and real and irreplaceable, but it's not enough. One moment, he is as intense as a mountain and there is no emptiness. The following, she is alone in this big house. If she left, the building itself would succumb to some force she cannot name and be filled with dust and cracks.

“Honey, if you don't talk I can't tell. If you need to exorcise that day at the park, we can go there together,” she offers one day.

He chuckles, possibly at the idea itself, possibly at her choice of words.

“No need, that's past. That's in the past.”

The cat gives a disappointed meow.

 

Interlude.

“Hellooo hello? Cabanela here, crown jewel of the Special Investigation U… oh, it's you, baby, just say it outriiight, what a looovely surprise! … No, it's not you. No, of course. … Baby it would take a blind man wearing shades at midnight not to notice. … That's sailin’ in hot waters for sure. … Nope, not a flippin’ clue. For now. For now…! Love you all, take care.”

Yeah, Alma thought so.

 

4.

Twice a week, Jowd goes to the clink to meet that engineer, Yomiel. He walks in like he's carrying the weight of the whole world on his shoulders and he walks out like he picked up the moon and Mercury too for good measure. But every time, he's got a sly smile half-hidden by his beard.

It is, self-evidently, a private club for people who did not ruin a human life for kicks and wrap it all up by handing them a gun. Doesn't mean Cabanela feels any less left out. One day, the guard overseeing their meetings happens to be some chump who owes him a favor and, as far as the guy could remember, it turns out they talked about oceanic depths, water pressure, the giddy feeling of electricity on skin. Cabanela paces up and down in the blessed privacy of his office, sweating off the sudden confusion. Perplexity doesn't suit him.

 

5.

It's pouring outside and it's none of Alma's business. With some luck, nothing is going to be Alma's business within the next few hours except for exhibit A, her book, and exhibit B, her cup of cocoa. The latter she just melted herself, adding cloves, orange zest and a pinch of cinnamon; the former is a promising debut in the _ridiculously sordid_ romance sub-genre and she's already got five pages bookmarked for later dramatic readings with her husband. Some things in life are meant to be done just right and the heavy raindrops drumming on the windows only help the mood.

Exhibit C, the cat, beelines for the cat flap and hops outside. What the hell, cat. One would trust a stray to be familiar with the concept of getting a godsdamn cold, but this Sissel is one of a kind, isn't he? Alma's lips curve into the smallest pout as she tries to focus on her book. As one worry turns into another, she remembers Jowd’s words from a few days earlier: _something is past_.

Half an hour later, the cat hops back inside, wet as a mop. The cat doesn't bother to shake off the rain. The cat jumps to his favorite spot on the heater and drops asleep as if on cue.

What the hell, cat.

 

6.

Jowd is fiddling with an end of his scarf. In his infinite benevolence, His Majesty Cabanela the First allows this modest display of devotion. In his infinite worry for the current state of his friend, Cabanela treasures it. He gives a playful tug on his end - hey theeere, partner? Testing, testing, is this connection still up?

A pat on the back almost sends him face down on his desk. Jowd's hand stays there, warming the back of his neck, settling on running his thumb along tired muscles. Shoulder massages are no novelty, Cabanela knows that those big paws can be firm and gentle, but now he is being held like a wounded bird. There's a whiff of apologetic nonsense in the air, his nose ain't wrong on these matters.

“What's the occasion, baby? As iiin, what did you do that I don't know about?”

“Cracked the Dorum case while you weren't looking?”

“Terrible. Unforgivable. Devastating.”

“I stole your ketchup at lunch.”

“Jowd…”

“And I suppose I never answered to that big sweeping declaration of yours from five months ago, that you'd do anything for me.”

Cabanela bends backwards to meet his unblinking gaze. One day, he swears, he's gonna tie him to a chair and shave him to see if he's got a genuine poker face under all that beard or if it's all mere tactical camouflage.

“That was nothing. I know you'd do the same for me.”

An awkward silence falls on the room and it feels like a victory, but a victory over what, Cabanela couldn't say.

 

7.

It should come as little surprise that an attentive dad would prove to be an attentive cat dad as well, Alma supposes - and if the furball helps him make a step or two on a path of healing, good. Very good. She's not jealous of the cat. Honest.

But, here is the deal, there is such a thing as being too zealous. Only Jowd can change his litter. Only Jowd can buy his food let alone feed him. If Alma ever entertained the daring idea of petting this most precious and spoiled feline, she better desist: the moment she's sitting in the kitchen and stretching her hand in Sissel’s direction, the rascal's already zapped to the bathroom, jumped on its window, and is giving her a warning stare.

She approaches on tiptoes when he seems still and lost in a dreamless sleep; first, a glass falls and shatters on the kitchen floor, a glass that was, she is sure, safely lying far from the table's border. Then, as she decides that picking up shards can wait, the phone rings and rings, incessant, until Alma is forced to go take that call. There is no-one on the other end, just the single soothing note of the dial tone.

“Here, kitty kitty…” she says, tempting him with a slice of ham. He won't come, she knows she is fighting a losing battle. But the war is still on, cat. The war is still on.

 

8.

Someone else is being melodramatic in the room: how the turntables have turned, muses Cabanela, more interested in the abstract idea of this change of pace than in the pedantic details rattled off by his colleague. Detective Rama, fresh off the hospital, is spinning to the rest of the office a tragic tale of how his modern toaster, latest model, imported from overseas, still had the gall to electrocute him when he stuck a knife inside it to reach a jammed piece of bread. The detective lingers on the sparks and the spasms the electricity caused as it traversed his muscles, which would, by itself, be reason enough to gracefully twirl out of the room and put a good distance between Cabanela’s ears and those pointlessly morbid details that make his knees go weak, but there is another spectacle going on that commands his attention. Jowd is leaning against a wall and chuckling to himself. Now, the man was never known for empathy and finesse, but this is laughing at misery. His eyes twinkle in the dim office light and he wipes off a tear with a minute handkerchief, then another, keeping his head lowered. Cabanela wanders closer. Was he crying to cover up that inappropriate laughter? Laughing to hide a deeper emotion? Which one's the mask, or could they both be, or neither? But why would any deep emotions be involved at all, is the question, and Cabanela has no answers and knows better than to ask.

It strikes him that evening - electricity again, like the talks with Yomiel, which in hindsight feel like an arcane, uncrackable code. Curiouser and curiouser.

 

9.

A pencil drawing of a cardboard box lies abandoned by the phone and of course the cat is sitting right on top of it: weird as he may be, not unlike cigars, sometimes a cat is just a cat, Alma laughs to herself. Can't resist those boxes, can you, o elusive furball? Even when they're flat? Her mirth is threatened by the nagging feeling that Sissel is sitting on top of evidence he doesn't want her to see, without realizing that his tiny body isn't enough to cover the whole sketch, but surely that's ridiculous. Picturing her husband ever so gently poking fun at her helps lay those silly thoughts to rest and focus on the bigger mystery here: “I didn't do that,” she tells the cat, who meows. “Kamila can't even hold a crayon and neither can you.”

Sissel rolls over, unwilling to engage in this conversation.

“Jowd never told me he could draw.”

 

10.

Most days, keeping Jowd propped up feels like that tale of the fellow on a hill with the boulder. Good thing Cabanela has always been told, ever since he was the brattiest tyke, that he's got the energy of four men and then some - he can easily spare an unit or two (and then some, because Jowd is worth it) and keep on swaggering through life. Problem is, they're going nowhere.

Then the big oaf gains momentum and for one bright moment he's as present and brilliant and wonderful as he ever was and Cabanela dares to hope that he won't fall this time, that they can keep pushing forward. He will. They can't. There is an issue deep down at the base and Cabanela can't see it. He keeps carrying him up and up to allow his friends to live every moment of those glimpses and he keeps looking every time they tumble down.

 

11.

Alma gave up on attempting to map the maze of nightmares that fill her husband's nights. Every time they sat on the corner of their bed at three in the morning, with two fuming mugs and the comfort of the bedside lampshade’s warm glow, every time she saw him lost in terrible thoughts and approached him, every time she felt like she'd set a firm foot in those winding paths, she was firmly and surely accompanied back to the entrance. So be it. If her words won't help, she knows that her caresses are smoothing out those walls. One day, maybe, she'll be able to glimpse their center.

 

12.

Everyone has some quirks. Cabanela firmly believes in this simple truth. Corollaries: normality does not exist. Adulthood as a clearly delimited category is a myth. Et cetera, et ceeetera.

But even with these premises, what need does Jowd have for an imaginary friend when he's got _him_? He's sitting there alone hunched over his desk talking to his pen. He could at least get himself a tiger! A flying golden dragon with scales of thunder!

“I know. It's easy for you to say it's all past,” he is whispering. “The only object permanence you're familiar with is being stuck as a broom for a day!”

“Mooornin’, baby! What's the horoscope, any words of wiiisdom from your new magical pen?”

Jowd springs back in his chair, clutching the thing to his chest. Regaining his composure, he lifts an eyebrow, that gets lost under that unruly tuft he calls a haircut, and brings the pen to his ear.

“My pen says you're one nosy oddball, my man.”

 

13.

Gods bless babysitters: Ulle has agreed to take Kamila with her and it's Alma's free day at home. Past editions of this extraordinary occurrence have included: sleeping all day in bed (extreme), napping all day on a deck chair (in summer), snoring all day in front of the TV (standard issue).

Not today: today is cat stalking day.

Early in the morning, Sissel demonstrates honed hunting reflexes and an admirable spirit of improvisation by using the semi-transparent cat flap as cover. The sparrows chirping on the porch can't see him coming from beyond the door: with a leap forward, he lands on one of them and paws at his prey. After a few seconds, he stiffens, as if struck by a divine revelation,and lets the bird go in a hurried retreat - _apologetically_ , Alma would say. Like he wanted the thrill, but not the kill. Very enlightened of him, for a cat.

Around midday, he climbs on his favorite spot atop the heater and takes a short nap. It's the only place in the home where he lets Alma touch him, which means she is almost compelled to seize the moment and sneak in a little scratch behind the ears. Seven seconds and a half later, a quick unsheathing of claws makes it clear that her presence is not welcome anymore.

In the afternoon, it's time for human ingenuity to prevail. Sissel knows that he is watched; Alma knows that Sissel knows that he is watched. Cats are, after all, private creatures, aren't they? What she hopes he won't realize, for her sanity's sake if nothing else (cats don't do that - or do they?), is that thanks to a few conveniently-positioned mirrors, she can keep watch on him even from a neighboring room. Sissel's behavior relaxes as soon as she gets out of sight - his movements get simpler, schematic, down to the barest needs of posture and locomotion. He takes a mouthful of his chicken kibble and goes outside, in a secluded corner near the back of the house, to spit it back out, ostensibly for the benefit of a flock of local pigeons.

“Jowd, the cat is weird,” she says that evening.

“I bet you tell him the same about the husband! Ha ha ha!”

“I am serious. I saw him pretend to eat some food and take it outside instead.”

“Oh, no. You noticed my secret stash. How tragic. I personally trained him to bring me chicken in all its forms.”

Alma can't bring herself to laugh.

 

14.

“I know what you are thinking and no. You can't buy her the giant plush horse for Christmas. It's bigger than her bed, Cabanela.”

“I'm not feelin’ the love, baby. What's with these ig-no-mi-ni-ous accusations!”

Jowd turns to look at him with a lopsided grin.

“I know you.”

“Wish I could say the saaame…”

A short pause as he lets it sink in. As if Jowd didn't know already, as if he weren't shutting everyone out on purpose. Alma's frequent phone calls drip with concern and dinners at their place got wiped off the calendar and yet his smile wasn't cold.

“...Anyway. Get her a doll from that cartoon, the one with the peacock and the chicken. Trust me, she'll love it.”

On the following day, the toy store’s clerk ceremoniously informs him that it's not that they are out of stock, it's that the stock doesn't exist yet: Chick&Pea, the animated motion picture, was revealed two weeks earlier for a projected summer release.

So he gets her the horse.

 

15.

They exchange the usual good morning kisses and well wishes, have a good day love, you too, if the cat turns into an alien monstrosity pretend you didn't see it, Jowd I'm serious with this cat thing, oh me too. “I almost forgot,” Jowd says, “don't change the sheets upstairs, will you? No need to strain your tired back, we'll do it together tonight.” Which is a nice thought from someone who has to trip over his crap before he ever tidies it up.

That afternoon, having washed and cooked and played with Kamila and called distant friends, Alma could do with half an hour of quiet reading. Her book is upstairs. Lost in thoughts, she doesn't see the stray sock abandoned on a step and in dilated moments of panic sees herself slipping, falling backwards, gaining speed, hitting her back against- a pillow. The biggest, fluffiest pillow, which most assuredly wasn't there before, cushioned her fall and left her lying on the floor with her heart pumping in her chest and a distant sense of not quite déjà vu, like of things that maybe happened to someone else, painting an acute pain in her leg and the distant sirens of an ambulance.

In her present, there is only the cat. When, still too spooked to move, she timidly stretches her head to look for a source of this miracle, all she finds is Sissel sitting in front of an inordinate amount of stuff, including but not limited to an umbrella, a tennis racket, four other pillows and a coffee thermos. He is swiping his tail to and fro and staring at her with deep yellow eyes.

It was the cat. _It was the cat._

 

16.

Gallantry is their well-practised game, Cabanela - ever so grandiose - plays the part and Jowd complies. He takes both their coats, saunters behind the bar and mixes him a Cosmopolitan while good ol’ Rip, the joint’s owner, has agreed to take a hike.

Jowd waits in a corner of the deserted bar.

“This could be more fun if you just started, you knooow, elucidatin’,” Cabanela says balancing the Cosmo between his fingers along with a Margarita of his own.

“I disagree.” Jowd's eyes glimmer under a row of dim lights. Of course he'd be amused, the old bastard. He looks like they're caught in a nostalgic little game, but Cabanela doesn't remember ever having to pry the truth out of his best friend's mouth with a crowbar.

“Something happened at the park this last October.”

“You'd know.”

“I don't believe I do, baby. I don't beliiieve I do… ostensibly, the only contact you ever had with then-suspect Yomiel was five minutes at gunpoint.”

“Mine on one side, yours on the other.”

“No, _really_ , I forgot.”

“That's what friends are for!”

“Geeee, thanks,” he deadpans back. “You didn't know him but there’s something that ties you to him, beyond mere guilt. Something about the ocean… and electricity. How'd the ocean come into play? Something ties you to _me_ or you'd have already dropped me like a white-coated potato, because that's how you do guilt, you run. And now you are looking guiltier than a dog with a snout full of peanut butter and yet here you are tugging at my scarf. Something I did and you did not.”

“You're wasted here, you know? You should try being a detective or something.”

“Now you listen to me, Jowd. If this looked like a joke to you…”

“As a matter of fact…!”

“LET ME FINISH!” Cabanela plants his fists on the table and stands up, burning, staring down at him. Jowd smiles a placid smile. “Who were you talkin’ to the other day, through that pen? Is this blackmail? It doesn't sound right - it's bigger than this, isn't it.”

“No, you listen to me, Cabanela, old friend. You're good at your job and you mix a mean Cosmo on the double, and I know you're only trying to help, so thanks for this, ah, _looovely_ after hours. But I can't talk, and I won't. End of story.”

“No it's not! We used to be on the same page, this ain't even the same book, how is this okay? There's something missin’ from my memories or this all doesn't add up. But Alma’s in my same boat and you're the one who's sufferin’ - and that, may I remind you, is super duper not okay. There might just be something extra in yours. And in that Yomiel’s as well, I'll bet. So what's the deal, Jowd? Aliens?”

“Yes.”

And the tragedy of it is that he's not lying. He's amused and terrified and meeting his gaze and inexplicably sincere in his candid bullshitting. But not completely.

“Hell, baby, I'll be gettin’ that truth one way or another if I have to run a full dictionary by you. ...Ghosts.” Would explain the possessed pen, for one. “Alien ghosts.”

“Yes.”

Bull's eye. But what in blazes does it even mean?

 

17.

It was the cat.

Alma is still sitting cross-legged on the pillow, transfixed. _It was the cat._ “It was you, wasn't it.”

She can hear her heart pumping in her chest; Sissel is still and silent like the statue of an ancient feline god, inscrutable and older than his years. Like Jowd, in a way.

“Listen. Sissel. Is this your name? Did Jowd give it to you? It's usually a lady's name, you know that? I doubt it. Chances are you can't even understand me, listen to me ramble now.”

It's the adrenaline, Alma, she tells herself. And all the little moments from the past two months cascading back to join into a half-formed meaning… on some level, she knew. She can't yet tell what it is that she knew, but the answer is a half-formed figure that has been waiting in the back of her mind. This isn't a game changer. This is just a bigger piece of the puzzle. Isn't it, Sissel?

She opens her hand. “You're out of the bag, cat. And you weren't the brightest of actors to begin with. I don't know what you're hiding, but you saved me… like you saved Jowd, didn't you? I promise I won't be scared. Will you let me touch you?”

He doesn't come closer. But for the first time, he isn't jolting away, either. Alma caresses perfect black fur and finds no heat, no breathing, no heartbeat, not a single hair falling on her hands.

“There, it wasn't that hard.”

Her heart is still beating fast enough for the two of them, anyway. An impossible creature is licking his paws in front of her. If he is real, in front of this undebatable truth, then somehow, Jowd coming back one day with the broken spirit of an old veteran, knowing things from days to come and possessing skills that do not fit in the twenty-five years of the life he's supposed to have lived so far… is also possible. Their troubles are real, and real battles can be fought. Bring on the impossible.

“I still have no clue what you are. But I would like to find out. Is that okay? If you can even understand my words and not just the tone of my voice, I suppose?”

They can be friends now, can't they? Or Alma can be his cat mom. Fine by her either way.

“Let's try this: I'll hold out my hands. You touch this one, the left one, it means yes. And this one, the right one, it means no. Are we good?” Left tap.

Test: is my name Alma? Left tap. Is your name Sissel? Left tap.

First question: does he want to help Jowd? Left tap.

Second question: does he know he and Alma are on the same side? Left tap.

Third question: will he help her understand? A thoughtful pause, low labored purring. Left tap.

Addendum: can he point at letters for answers that are more complex than a simple yes or no? Right tap, with a crestfallen lowering of tail and ears. How on Earth did her question manage to hit a sore spot? Don't sweat it, cat. If they are on the same side, everything is possible. The afternoon is young...

 

18.

Everything is falling apart. The more he tried to squeeze his secrets tight, the more they scattered through the cracks and into the lives of the people who should have never known. He only wanted to grant them the peace of mind of a simple, linear life. Jowd, old chum, you had one job.

 

19.

““Hellooo hello? Cabanela her- yes. Comin’.”

Their lanky limbs are ill fit for a hug and the volumes of Cabanela's bold new bike in between them aren't helping either, but they're not waiting until he twirls off the thing to find comfort in each other's warmth and presence. Alma is real with her soft hair and strong grip. Cabanela is real, ardent and immaculate. The mutual announcements of important, tremendous news bounce between them, the phone wasn't enough to convey the enormity of their findings and even now that they are standing one in front of the other the impossible truth fills their lungs to the point that they can't breathe.

“It's the cat.” “It's alien time-travelling ghosts.” How do you believe your own words, when they sound like this? But the other nods and offers yet more incredible tales, and together they patch up a bigger picture than either of them could suspect, with Jowd keeping mum at the center of it all. They won't let him suffer alone.

Alma feels the bracelet on her left wrist jingle in approval.

“I think Sissel agrees with us,” she shares with Cabanela, feeling the first genuine burst of laughter in too many weeks bubble up and finally make it to her lips, and the three of them shake hands and ghost cores of  silver pendants over their resolve. It's three days to Christmas and a soft snow starts falling.

 

20.

Jowd has gone through the motions of wrapping boxes, putting up stockings and lights, cooking dishes of any tradition that bothers to dress up a chicken for a festive table. It's almost over, quieter days will be upon them soon. It's harder when it's quiet.

For the last stretch, he watches as Alma and Cabanela appreciate presents he picked for them a thousand years ago, when he used to know them. They already liked them once, when they knew him. The pantomime unfolds as scripted.

It's his present, a cube lying against the ominous plush horse whose fate he was unable to divert, that bothers him. Alma's handiwork, no doubt, but he cannot remember a present that massive. Signed simply with his wife's and his best friend's name, it's all that's left to be opened, so Jowd grabs a pair of scissors and dives into it, finding that the wrapping paper hides a layer of plastic, which in turn covered a whole lot of tape, which kept some glued-up newspapers together. Underneath, a wooden box locked by a code (written in permanent marker on a ribbon he'd discarded minutes earlier, but memorized just in case) is filled with polyurethane foam - Cabanela nonchalantly passes him a scalpel.

A few more layers later, a box that almost went up to his knee turns out to have been the wrapping for an eyeglasses case. Inside, a note, which reads:

 

Now that you know how it feels to talk to you lately,

here's the news:

we know.

Well, most of the story. Not all. We'd like to hear the rest from you.

We miss you so much

 

They know. Sissel licks his tail. Of course.

It's not easy when he thought he'd choked those words and left them to die at the bottom of his throat, this tale is long and bloodied and he's not ready to tell it here, in the same room where he once held Alma's warm corpse and shot her again to cover for their daughter. They may have figured out the summary, but they can't begin to comprehend his shame. He wishes he could disappear - locked up underground or far below the waves. Instead, he finds himself squished between two busybodies, with a cat on top who is doing his level best to make his own dead body fake some purring.

Eventually, through miles of layers of this glaciation, the words thaw. A great weight melts, flowing down below them, and Jowd takes a deep breath and says:

“For me, it is the story of five years. For Sissel, it is the story of one night, the night when he died…”

  


The tale ends at dawn.

It's not a cure. They've got a magic cat, not a magic wand, and they would all agree that they’re all topped up on miracles for the next two lives and a half. Nightmares will return, hard times will come, some wounds leave breaches even once they're healed. But it's a start. In one year, they will be laughing together under the warm yellow lights of the tree.

**Author's Note:**

> In keeping with the local names, Dorum is an anagram of "Mord" - murder in German - written in katakana, Ulle is short for bullet, and Rip, well, self-explanatory... Happy Yuletide dear recipient!!! Thank you so much for this prompt!


End file.
